“Yes, of course.”
But long after James left the house, Hannah remained in that chair. Revisiting scenes from the past through the lens of this new revelation.
She recalled little things Lady Mayfield had said, things Hannah had attributed to Marianna’s general disappointment with Sir John, like, “I wish Anthony would do something—end this farce of a marriage once and for all.”
It had never crossed Hannah’s mind that Marianna’s marriage to Sir John really was a farce—and worse—a fraud. No wonder Fontaine had been devastated by news of Marianna’s “death.” She was his wife.
Other little snippets of their conversations came back to her. The teasing. The double entendres. Marianna coyly asking, “And how is Mrs. Fontaine tonight?” And his suggestive replies that always made Hannah feel left out of some private joke: “You tell me.” Or, “My dear wife is at home and plans to go to bed early. . . .”
The two of them had slyly referred to Marianna as “Mrs. Fontaine” right in front of Hannah, and she had never guessed. Who would guess such a sordid thing possible?
Finally, Hannah rose wearily and went back upstairs to her room, her heart aching for Sir John Mayfield all over again.
—
The next day, Hannah paced her small bedchamber, walking a fussy Danny back and forth across its length, rocking and shushing him. Becky had already tried and given up. Mrs. Hurst did not approve of crying babies. Perhaps Hannah ought to have accepted her father’s offer to move home, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet. Nor did she wish to flaunt her illegitimate child before his congregation.
A knock sounded on her bedchamber door and Hannah stiffened. She crossed the room to answer it, anticipating a reprimand.
“Hello, Mrs. Hurst. I am sorry. But Danny—”
The woman interrupted her. “There’s a gentleman to see you.”
Hannah’s heart skipped a beat. Was it Sir John? But she told herself to stop being foolish. Danny, she noticed, popped a fist in his mouth and silently stared at Mrs. Hurst, tears still clinging to his long lashes. He didn’t like the woman, either.
“Here’s his card,” Mrs. Hurst said, extending it toward her. “A solicitor. You’re not in any trouble, I trust?”
“Oh.” She glanced at James’s card. “No.”
Suspicion lit the woman’s eyes.
“Mr. Lowden is the solicitor of Sir John Mayfield,” Hannah explained, trying to ignore the disappointment flooding her. “My . . . former employer.”
The woman’s head tilted to the side and her face puckered in thought. “Mayfield . . . Isn’t that the name of the woman in the newspapers this morning?”
“I . . . don’t know,” Hannah murmured, distracted. She had been too busy with fussy Daniel to read the news. She inhaled. “Well, I shall go down and speak to Mr. Lowden in the sitting room if you don’t mind, Mrs. Hurst.”
“Well, you’ll not see him here in your bedchamber, that’s for certain. I run a respectable house, I do.”
“Yes, I know.” Hannah gave her a brittle smile. “For which I am duly grateful.”
She handed Danny to Becky and passed by the woman. Gripping the handrail tightly, she made her way downstairs and into the sitting room.
James turned at her entrance. “Miss Rogers.”
She dipped her head. “Mr. Lowden.” She smiled at him, but he did not return the gesture.
“Was that Daniel I heard? He doesn’t sound very happy.”
“I am afraid it’s the colic again.”
“Ah,” James murmured vaguely, clearly distracted.
Hannah closed the sitting room door and turned toward him, but he held up a hand to forestall her. “I am afraid this is not a social call.”
She hesitated, feeling both confused and strangely relieved. “Oh?”
“I am here in my official capacity as Sir John’s solicitor. I’ve had a letter from him. In it, he enclosed a letter to you, and asked me to forward it on, as he does not have your direction.”
He withdrew a folded rectangle from his pocket and handed it to her.
She accepted it, glancing at the seal and finding it still in tact.
“No, I did not read it,” he said dryly, noticing the direction of her gaze.
She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “But you want me to tell you what it says?”
He held her gaze a moment. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. If you weren’t curious, you might have sent it by messenger.”
“That’s not why I came in person.”
She expected to see a grin on his face or flirtatious light in his eyes. Instead he remained somberly officious.
He looked down, clearing his throat. “Pardon me. I have one more duty to discharge.”
He extracted a small leather purse from another pocket and kept his gaze averted. “The stipend for Daniel. Sir John insists he be allowed to support him, at least as long as you remain unmarried, and beyond that if your . . .” He swallowed. “. . . husband . . . is agreeable. He bids me to state that accepting the money on Daniel’s behalf in no way obligates you to him.”
Looking at James, Hannah was reminded of palace guards with their raised chins and stiff lips, staring straight ahead while carrying out their solemn duties.
“Oh, James . . .”
Again he held up his hand to forestall her. “Miss Rogers. I am compelled to ask. Are there any questions or requests you would like to make of my employer? Any news of Daniel’s health or needs you would like me to pass on?”
Tears bit Hannah’s eyes. “Only one request, Mr. Lowden.”
His soldier eyes flickered to hers uncertainly. “Yes?”
Her voice trembled. “Tell me what to do.”
His Adam’s apple convulsed up and down the long column of his throat. “That I cannot do.”
He bid her farewell and left her to read the letter in private.
Dear Miss Rogers,
No doubt you have heard by now the sorry tale of the elopement of Marianna Spencer and Anthony Fontaine before our own marriage. I wanted to let you know, before you saw it in the newspaper, that I am seeking a decree of nullity on the grounds of fraud. I know you have strong feelings against divorce, but I hope that in this, you will absolve me. My solicitor assures me my case will succeed. I dread the proceedings and scandal and vile gossip, but feel it must be done, as quickly and quietly as possible. I have no wish to expose Marianna publically nor to punish her, and if anything, a formal release from me will be welcomed by her.
I want to give you every assurance that I pursue this course for my own sake without expectation or hope that there will be, or ever can be, a future between us. I wish you to do nothing out of guilt or a false sense of obligation. You are free. And hopefully, I will soon be free as well.
I am sorry to involve Mr. Lowden in this particular duty, but as I had not your direction, I have asked him to forward the letter to you in the manner he sees fit. Hopefully by post or messenger to avoid any awkwardness between the two of you.
I also wish to reiterate my determination to support Daniel, at least until such time as you marry, and beyond that only if you and your future husband are agreeable. Again, the stipend is not to be construed as a bribe and rest assured that accepting the money on his behalf in no way obligates you. I simply wish to guarantee neither you nor Danny suffer want while you are considering your options for the future.
I hope and daily pray that you have been able to reconcile with your father. If there is anything I can do to help in that regard, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I don’t wish to presume or interfere, but if he rebukes you in any way, I would be happy to speak to him on your behalf—accept responsibility for your situation even as I cannot regret Danny’s existence. I will gladly accept any blame, while giving you all of the credit f
or the healthy and delightful child he is, and the kind and honorable man he will no doubt become, thanks to your influence and upbringing.
May God bless you with a long and happy life.
Sincerely,
Sir John Mayfield, KCB
Hannah sank onto the sofa and read the letter again. It was almost as if he wanted her to choose James—a younger man not tainted by a sordid past. But she had her own sordid past to consider. Although she believed God had forgiven her, that didn’t mean she was free of the consequences—the disgrace, the gossip, the end of her acceptance into respectable society.
If she were truly selfless she would release both men.
But she was not.
CHAPTER 29
Hannah’s father invited her and Danny to dinner, which afforded Becky a well-deserved evening off. Hannah offered her extra money in case she wished to go out somewhere, but Becky said all she wanted was to nestle in bed with a book and a tin of sweets. Hannah happily supplied both.
How strange it felt to enter her former home as a guest. Her father smiled in self-conscious welcome and took Danny into his study, suggesting Hannah see if there was anything else in her bedchamber she wanted.
Walking slowly around her old room felt like visiting a museum of her youth, everything much as it had been when she had moved to the Mayfields’ a few years before. She flipped through a long-forgotten diary and found a faded love letter from Fred. She had lost that Fred, the young suitor, but was so thankful to have kept him as a friend. Next she sorted through the baby clothes her parents had saved, a few of which she would wash and reclaim for Danny—a nightshirt, woolen coat and cap, and soft knitted blanket. She also found a brooch of her mother’s—tiny bluebells painted on ivory—and thought it might make a nice gift for Mrs. Turrill, who had mentioned bluebells were her favorite. Finally, she selected a few books to give to Becky, and for herself, a lovely leather-bound edition of the Proverbs, containing a Psalter and the Sermon on the Mount.
Returning to her father’s study, she paused in its threshold. Her heart warmed to see her father pray over Danny in his arms, and then contort his usually solemn face into comical expressions his congregation would be stunned to see from the pulpit.
The maid of all work prepared a simple meal of chicken and leek soup, which Hannah ladled out at table like the woman of the house, her mother’s memory very near. The maid admired Danny, calling him a handsome lad, but Hannah did not miss her surreptitious glance at her bare ring finger.
Back in the lodging house the next day, Mrs. Hurst knocked to announce that Hannah had another caller.
“That solicitor has returned,” she said with a concerned frown. “Are you sure you’re in no trouble?”
“No trouble, Mrs. Hurst.” Not any longer, she thought. Thank you, God.
Leaving a content Danny in Becky’s care, Hannah went down to speak to James. She wondered what errand brought him this time—and if this would be a business or personal call.
In the sitting room, James stood fidgeting, twirling his hat brim in his hands. As soon as he saw her, he blurted, “Have you heard the news?”
She blinked. “Which news?”
“About Marianna?”
Hannah held up a “wait” finger. Knowing Mrs. Hurst would eavesdrop if she could, Hannah closed the door firmly behind her. “Go on.”
“She has been charged with bigamy.”
Hannah stared at him, incredulous. “No . . . I can’t believe Sir John would expose her so publically.” Hannah felt queasy disappointment at the thought. “In his letter, he said he would not do so.”
“Sir John did not. Mr. Fontaine himself was the complainant, the ‘injured party,’ whose wife married another man.”
“Unbelievable . . .” Hannah slowly shook her head. “Marianna must be livid. Did Sir John testify?”
James nodded. “He was summoned, so yes, he did. But reluctantly.”
Sir John was there in Bristol, Hannah realized, and yet he had not called on her or visited Danny. . . . Feeling suddenly weary, she lowered herself into a chair.
Mr. Lowden continued, “Marianna got off lightly, considering the charge. She managed to lay most of the blame at her father’s door—her father who is conveniently dead. She isn’t to be hung or even imprisoned—”
“Thank God,” Hannah interjected.
“Only to sit in the Redcliff Hill stocks for three hours.”
Shock washed over Hannah. “The stocks? Marianna?”
“Yes. I thought you’d be glad.”
Hannah shook her head. She felt no such vindication. Did he know her so little? “Glad? Never. Poor Marianna.”
“Poor Marianna? After what she tried to do to you?”
“I know, but . . .” Her words trailed away as the image of pampered, beautiful Marianna formed in her mind—sitting in the stocks in one of her fine gowns. Alone. The object of scorn and humiliation.
James unfurled his pocket watch. “In fact, she should be placed in the stocks about now.” He clicked his watch shut and asked warily, “You do realize what this means?”
Hannah rose suddenly to her feet. “It means I must go to her.”
“What? No. I meant, what it means for Sir John.”
But Hannah’s mind was not on Sir John. It was on Marianna. “Please let Becky know I’ll return when I can.”
She rushed from the house. Vaguely she heard James calling for her to stop, or at least to wait for the carriage, but paid him no heed. She ran past Queen’s Square, crossed the bridge, and then made haste up Redcliff Hill. By then her sides ached and she panted with exertion.
She passed St. Mary’s, its churchyard fenced by thickest hedge, and there, just outside its gate, the stocks. Double stocks, but only one occupant. Hannah’s heart twisted at the sight. Lady Mayfield—or was it, Mrs. Fontaine?—sat on the muddy ground, ankles pinned in the low stocks, scuffed slippers listing on her small feet. She stared blindly ahead as passersby gawked or hurried their children away.
A small crowd began to gather, jeer, and taunt, and Marianna scowled, snapping at them with words Hannah was too far away to hear and likely better off spared.
As she walked closer, a boy of nine or ten reeled back with a rotten apple and took aim. Noticing, Marianna covered her face with her hands.
Hannah lunged forward and grabbed the boy’s arm. “No! Remember, let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
“Ain’t no stone, miss. It’s an apple.”
“Don’t.” Hannah held his gaze, then released him. She lifted her skirts and tiptoed through the mire left by last night’s rains. Marianna had yet to see her, but Hannah was close enough now to hear her quiet sobbing.
Hannah rounded the stocks, accidentally kicking one end as she stepped behind them. The reverberation startled Marianna and her eyes darted open. Her arms shot up to ward off a projectile or a blow.
For a moment she gaped at Hannah, a frown line between her brows. Hannah tensed, imagining Marianna would rebuff her.
“Come to gloat?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why are you here then?”
Hannah swept her skirts to one side and sat on the ground beside Marianna, aligned with the second set of holes.
“I am here to stay by you. To be your companion through this.”
“Ha.” Marianna’s scoff lacked malice. In fact her chin quivered.
Ignoring the damp seeping through her gown, Hannah looked out at the uncertain, shuffling crowd, silently daring any of them to throw something. Praying no one would.
She glanced over and saw Marianna’s lips twist bitterly. Even as they trembled.
“I ought to tell you to go away,” she said. “That I don’t need you.” Tears filled her eyes. “But I am too weak. I can’t bear this on my own.”
Hannah held her gaz
e, and slowly shook her head. “You don’t have to.”
Jogging onto the scene, James glimpsed Anthony Fontaine leaning against a tree some distance from the stocks. As James passed by him, Fontaine laid a staying hand on his arm. “Leave them.”
James scowled. “I am surprised at you, Fontaine. This is beneath even you.”
“She might have been hung or sent to prison. This is nothing.”
“To a woman like Marianna Spencer?”
Fontaine shrugged. “It will be good for her to be knocked down a peg or two. She holds an altogether too high opinion of herself.”
For a moment James stood where he was, torn between wanting to rush over and help Hannah up, and not wanting to be seen interfering. It would not help his professional reputation. He eyed Fontaine again. “What will you do now?”
“I leave for America in three days’ time.”
James reared his head back. “America?”
“Yes. I’m ready for a fresh start.”
“You’ll leave Marianna then?”
“Heavens, no. She goes with me.”
James felt his brows rise. “Does she indeed? After this?”
“Yes. She is my wife after all.”
“And she has agreed to go?”
“Not yet. But I know her well. She thinks she has lost me. Suddenly I have very great appeal.” He nodded with confidence. “She will go with me.”
James studied the man’s implacable profile and asked quietly, “Do you regret it? Going along with the scheme in the first place?”
Keeping his focus on the stocks, Fontaine considered. “I wanted the money, and knew she didn’t love Sir John. I didn’t think I would mind.” He inhaled deeply. “But I was wrong.”
James turned and looked again at the stocks.
Across the distance, Hannah met and held his gaze. Solemnly, she nodded once, and then looked back at Marianna.
James waited one minute longer, then turned and walked home alone.
—
Later, after Marianna’s release, Hannah returned to the lodging house, cleaned herself up and changed. She made sure Becky and Danny had all they needed, and then went back out. James had mentioned that Sir John had been called on to testify. She assumed—or at least hoped—he was still in Bristol. She wore her lovely walking dress for confidence. Would he receive her? If so, eagerly or reluctantly?
Lady Maybe Page 33
